Speculative Fiction—an all-encompassing genre created to describe stories of science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, and other stories that have an element of “What if...” in them. A story in speculative fiction is one that adds an element of the unreal, or asks, what would become of our society if history took a different direction at some important event? Fiction with a little something extra thrown in.—William D. Richards

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

The Boy With The Blue Sky by N.C. Davis

About The Boy With The Blue Sky:

How far would you go to bring back a loved one from the dead?Theo returned her stare. 'It's not just a program.''Then what the hell is it?' she said.'It's a digital reconstruction of our son.'

On
the anniversary of their young son’s death, teacher Eury can only find
peace by descending into an electronically-induced world of dreamless
sleep.

Her husband Theo, a music lecturer, is at the end of
his tether and has tried everything he can think of to drag Eury out of
the darkness. So, in a final act of desperation he acquires software
that can digitally resurrect their child.

Will it bring Eury back to him or will the shock drive her deeper into a world of endless slumber?

The
Boy with the Blue Sky is a story that shines a light on the steady
creep of technology, into the most intimate parts of our lives.

Word count 5083

Excerpt:

1.0

A firm hand gripped Eury’s wrist and dragged her out of dreamless
sleep. As her eyes adjusted to the bedroom’s dusk, Theo’s
silhouette formed above her and his dark thumb kneaded her neural
tattoo as if to crush a tick.

‘Jesus,’ Eury hissed. She tried to tug her wrist from his grasp.
‘What do you think you are doing?’

He did not loosen his grip. ‘What day is it?’

She clawed at his hand. ‘Stop that. I need it.’

‘It’s been a year, Eury,’ Theo said.

‘I have nothing to wake for.’

He dropped her thin arm back onto the mattress. ‘It’s waiting for
you downstairs.’

Eury struggled to sit upright. ‘What’s waiting?’

The door swallowed Theo’s silence as he left the bedroom.

‘Bastard,’ Eury said. She shifted sun-starved legs over the
bedside and the cold tiles felt soft beneath her numbed feet.

‘Curtain,’ she said and the dark window cleared to make a dawn of
the midday sun; a year since their world broke into three separate
blades.

*

As Eury entered the living space, she trembled in the wake of an
electric breeze; a ghost in a thin white nightslip.A sliver of glass stood on a low table. It framed a field of amber
grasses which swayed beneath a washed out sky. And at its centre
cycled Lionel, a small sun-bleached version of his father, on a
journey he would never complete.

‘Not this,’ Eury said.

She slapped the frame down and sunk into a sofa as it rose from the
floor. The opposite wall kept its pearl camouflage, where once it
pulsed pictures of the Westminster Canals, a family party, their
son.

‘Theatre,’ said Theo as he entered the living space. Liquid crystal
windows cleared their panes of centigrade, then flashed opaque to
blot out the sun.

Eury glanced up in the darkness. ‘What’s this all about?’

Theo eased beside her on the seat, but as usual she shrank from his
side.

‘Threnody,’ he replied then finally turned to face the wall ahead.

Sudden wind chimes rushed about their ears. Three sparks flit
amongst themselves, mere inches from their faces, until they
spiraled into a tunnel of light. It exploded into a brightness that
blew her irises. The image dimmed and a field emerged, so green
that it could not be alive. To their left, a distant yew broke
through the earth. To their right, a puff of cumulus blossomed in
the sky. Finally, the light dimmed to match the hour even though
they could see no sun.

The ident flashed its arrival in the top left corner.

‘What’s three-node?’ said Eury.

‘A gift from me,’ he replied.

She eyed the glass frame on the table, a previous gift, and Eury’s
skin cooled.

Then a speck beyond the yew caught her eye. ‘What’s that?’

The speck became a dot. Then it passed the yew to wade through
emerald fields. The dot became a silhouette, then- her heart
thumped - a boy.

About N.C. Davis:

N C Davis is a freelance writer and fantasy author who performed
her short story, The Red Hibiscus, live at the ABCtales.com EMMA
awards in 2003. When she isn't trying to discover new
worldwide folktales, she writes speculative fiction, modern
fairytales and dark fantasy stories.

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